Running Away
by Major Trouble
Summary: Marshall can't stand it. Can he run from his thoughts? Post- Don't Cry, only partial spoilers for Don't Cry and Trojan Horst. M/M? You decide.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is my first IPS fanfiction. Last night I found a little empty, blue book like you get at school sometimes, and started writing lyrics to Snow Patrol's 'What If This Storm Ends' and 'Crack the Shutters,' then I started to write this out. I was up until two AM, but I only hesitated a couple of times, looking for the write word or phrase- my muse carried me through pretty well. Hopefully you like it, but whether you do or not, please review and tell me what you think!  
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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the following characters, as they belong to the USA Network. I do not own the name Glock, nor do I own a Glock. I do not own the US Marshals Service. No copyright infringement intended.**

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It was his fault. Much as he wanted to deny it, it was his fault. In fact, he wasn't sure he wanted to deny it. It was his fault. He had to take responsibility for it.

Who was he kidding? He wanted to deny it. He didn't want to take responsibility. But he couldn't help it. No matter what he did or said, no matter what anyone else told him, it was his fault. There was no question in his mind that it was his fault. All his fault. Plain and simple.

If she didn't make it....

No. He couldn't even think that. If he didn't think about it, it would never happen. Never. Besides, how could it? She was… her. Plain and simple. That's all there was to it. It wasn't possible for her to die, it just wasn't.

But now he'd thought it. Now it was possible. Now he couldn't get the thought out of his head. _If she doesn't make it_….

What? What would happen? What would he do? Would _he_ survive if she didn't? No, he didn't think so. He didn't think so. He didn't think it was possible to live that way. No, it definitely wasn't. Come to think of it, he wasn't sure how he had survived before he met her. How could he have gotten by that way, without her? Thinking back, life seemed dull and boring, absolutely mundane then. Sure, at the time everything had seemed fine, but now? How could _anyone_ live without her in their life?

He was careful not to think her name. Couple that with the forbidden thoughts he'd already had, and it would be inevitable, not just possible. He wasn't allowed to think her name.

Of course, he did as soon as he told himself not to.

Mary Shannon.

Marshall could have shot himself. He'd been holding himself together for Jinx, Brandi, hell, even Raph. But now, with those thoughts, he couldn't. Just couldn't.

He paced. An hour passed. Two hours. Three. He never sat down, just paced, back and forth, back and forth. If a doctor came in, he never even noticed, buried as he was in his thoughts.

After the fourth hour, he went out to the parking lot. He couldn't drive, he could hardly see. But he could walk. He could run.

But how do you run away from your thoughts?

Marshall ran until his lungs felt as if they would explode and fell, panting and wheezing, to his knees in the middle of the desert. He had no idea how long he'd run for, nor did he care. He had no idea where he was, nor did he care. He had no idea how many people he'd shoved out of his way to get there, nor did he care. He could have been hit by a car, he wouldn't have noticed. Nor would he have cared.

Now he couldn't even stay upright. His elbows hit the dirt, his forehead on the ground between his wrists. He didn't care that he was ruining the knees of his favorite jeans. Why should he? He didn't care that he was ruining the elbows of his best jacket. Why should he?

After a minute that felt like an eternity, his breathing had returned to normal. He was beyond tears at this point, beyond feeling anything. He was no longer angry at himself or the shooter, he wasn't hopeful or even in pain.

Marshall Mann, the US Marshal, was broken. Plain and simple.

Even if Mary Shannon woke up, she'd want Raph there with her, and her mother, even the younger sister she sometimes hates, but really loves. She loves them all.

But not him. She doesn't love him. Never did. And she never would. Even if she woke up, she'd never be his. His best friend, but not_ his_. He never had and never would have any claim over her.

And it killed him.

Lying on his back, Marshall saw the sun glint off something at his waist. Two somethings, which brought his attention to another something, hidden under his jacket. A belt buckle, a badge, and, when he pushed his jacket aside, a holstered gun.

He took the badge off and clutched in his left hand, slid the gun out of his holster with his right, and ignored the belt buckle. He stared at both for, well, he wasn't sure how long.

He didn't care, either.

Marshall dropped his badge to his chest, so the star rested on the buttons of his shirt. For several minutes he closed his eyes, then pressed the cold muzzle of his own Glock to his right temple.

He opened his eyes again. He wanted to see the world one last time, but all he saw was clear blue sky. With no energy to look around, it would have to be enough.

He didn't notice the phone in his pocket, which had been ringing for the last two hours or so. He was about to pull the trigger when his own words came back to him.

"I will try not to die. For you."

Still, he laid there, gun to his head, but he had put the safety on, almost unconsciously. Another minute- or was it a year?- and his hand dropped to the dirt, the gun falling from his limp hand and clattering on a flat rock under his head. The tears came back again, much worse than before. The last time he'd sobbed like this, beyond control, he was a little boy. He didn't notice the SUV that pulled up twenty feet away, or the arms that wrapped around him, because while subconsciously he knew they were there, they weren't the arms he wanted to feel.

Eventually, he consciously realized he was sitting up, held by two pairs of arms. One, Jinx, the other, Stan. Marshall didn't care to think what it would take to get Jinx from the hospital. It would either devastate him or get his hopes up, only to dash them again when he came back to his senses. Dimly, he heard Brandi and Bobby D. behind him, though he couldn't understand them. Were they even speaking a human language? And then another familiar voice. Raph's. That couldn't be good, but he couldn't think about it.

He concentrated instead on the rough hand rubbing circles on his back- Stan. Jinx just held him and he heard her crying, felt the tears soaking through his jacket, but it was nothing to the sobs racking Marshall's own body.

Even when his eyes were open, nothing. Marshall couldn't see a thing, so he didn't bother with the effort of keeping his eyes open anymore.

When at last he had stopped shaking, Raph and Bobby D. helped Stan get Marshall to his feet. He almost fell again, so the homicide detective and the Dominican ex-shortstop each threw one of his arms over their shoulders, realizing he couldn't support himself anymore.

But he didn't notice. What he did notice was a hand taking his holster off his belt. Stan added the holster to his own and replaced Marshall's Glock in it, realizing what might happen if he gave it back to his Inspector, safety or no safety.

Marshall felt fury now. Fury at Stan. "Give it back," he spat angrily. "It's mine!"

He was deaf to the calming words of the others and ripped out of Bobby and Raph's restraining hold as though they weren't even there. Advancing towards where he knew Stan was, he was suddenly aware of the sensation of sight- he could see again.

"Marshall, you know I can't give it back to you."

"It's mine." The words were crystal clear and steady, even a little icy, but lacking his original anger. Stan stood his ground.

"I promised," Marshall muttered uselessly a few minutes later, having been repeatedly denied his request for his weapon. He fell once more to his knees. "I promised…."

And he thought of nothing, felt nothing. He was alive, conscious, even, and kneeling, but he couldn't see. Couldn't hear. Couldn't smell, taste, or feel. There was not a single thought in his head.

He'd run away from them all.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Someone suggested that I write it from another point of view, and I couldn't get the idea out of my head. This isn't as much Stan's thoughts as just another view to the story, so you can see what happened outside Marshall's head and get a better grasp on the time. I was writing out the lyrics to _Take Back the City_ and _Disaster Button_ before I wrote this portion. Don't forget to review and tell me what you think!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the following characters, as they belong to the USA Network. I do not own the name Glock, nor do I own a Glock. I do not own the US Marshals Service. No copyright infringement intended.**

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Stan understood why Marshall was as upset as he was. He'd known how he felt about his partner for quite some time- it was one of those things you knew, but didn't know how you knew it.

He was pretty sure he'd never seen a guy cry when his partner was shot, best friend or not. Even Raphael wasn't crying. Still, he respected both men- Marshall cared so much about Mary and so little about his own image, while Raphael held it together and put on a brave face for Jinx and Brandi.

So now he found himself comforting not only Mary's family and fiancé, but her partner as well. They were much closer than just partners, though, they were best friends. For this reason, Stan had found himself in this position before- after the disastrous Horst incident, when Marshall was shot, was one time that stuck out in his memory.

After a while, Marshall started pace restlessly, running his hands through his hair in agitation and worry. Stan watched him, counting- one "lap" was when Marshall got back to the wall on Stan's right, where he'd started. There were silent tears running down his face, and Brandi got up to comfort him, but Stan grabbed her wrist.

"He just needs space. Don't worry, he'll be fine." Or at least, Stan certainly hoped he would be.

Marshall had made three hundred seventy-two laps of the waiting room when Stan's phone rang. Three of the other four people in the room looked up at him, even Raph, who seemed to have woken up at the sound, but Marshall didn't seem to notice at all.

"Stan."

"It's Bobby D. We've got a lead on the shooter."

"I'll be right there."

He told the others and stood up to leave, knowing Marshall would want to go and catch the bastard who shot Mary, but he wasn't going to let him. So he wasn't at all surprised when Marshall stopped him on his way to the door- or at least, that's what he thought, until he realized Marshall had kept walking, not even noticing that he'd walked into anything, let alone a person. Stan watched the others give Marshall worried looked, said "Call me if there's news," and left.

A few hours later, sitting in a chair next to Bobby D's desk at the Albuquerque Police station, Stan was startled out of his thoughts- was no news good news?- by the phone in his pocket. The caller ID told him it was Jinx Shannon. His pulse skyrocketed and he could feel his heart thumping wildly inside his ribcage. What had happened?

Jinx tried to tell him something, but her voice wasn't steady and Stan thought she might be crying. Yeah, it was bad. Stan tried to accept the fact that his inspector had died- why else would her mother sound so upset?

After several minutes, Raph's voice sounded in his ear, telling him that Marshal had left, without warning, over an hour ago, hadn't come back, and wasn't answering his cell phone.

Bobby D. was watching him. When he snapped his phone shut, the homicide detective was quick to ask if Mary was okay.

"It's Marshall. He walked out an hour ago and won't answer his cell."

Bobby didn't waste any time. Luckily, Marshall's phone had a GPS chip in it, so it wasn't hard to find him from a desk in the middle of a police station. Soon they were in Stan's SUV, driving back to the hospital with a map in each man's mind.

Stan tried to get someone to stay so they'd know how Mary was doing, but they were all concerned about Marshall and looking for some form of distraction.

He hadn't noticed going into the hospital, as he'd been facing the other way, but Marshall's GMC was parked at the other end of the lot. He tapped Bobby D. on the shoulder and pointed to it, knowing he'd recognize it. The cop let out a low whistle.

"Damn, you marshals- or the young ones, anyway- must be in damn good shape to run nearly six miles in an hour and a half with all that on your mind. If I were Marshall, I'm not sure I would have moved until Mary was awake."

Stan ignored the gentle jab. "Maybe he was trying to run away," he said softly, closing Jinx's door and climbing into the SUV.

Oh no. No. No. It couldn't be. That wasn't him. No. It wasn't, it couldn't be.

It was. That hair was unmistakable, that jacket the same as always.

Thank god. He didn't, he's moving.

Stan let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, and heard the rest of the car's occupants do the same. As they got closer, Stan recognized the way his marshal was moving- he was crying. Jinx was out of the car almost before they'd stopped, running towards Marshall- she liked him, he was polite and funny, not to mention her daughter's best and only friend. She sat him up and held him, crying into his shoulder. Stan, rubbing circles on his inspector's back, heard her saying his name over and over, but Marshall himself seemed oblivious. The others were talking quietly behind him, but he didn't seem to notice them, either.

It was then Stan noticed the gun next to his foot. It was Marshall's; he didn't need to see the empty holster on his belt to know that. Had he really tried to kill himself?

After nearly ten or fifteen minutes, Marshall's sobs subsided and he stopped shaking. Bobby D. extended a hand to help Stan up and Raph helped Jinx to her feet and back to the car before the three men lifted Marshall up. The tried talking to him, but they could tell he couldn't hear them.

Marshall's knees buckled- he couldn't support his own weight, so Bobby D. and Raph did instead. Seeing the now-empty holster at Marshall's waist, Stan took it and added it to his own belt, putting Marshall's gun in it.

He wasn't sure if what happened next was good or bad.

Marshall's eyes locked on Stan, and all Chief saw was fury. "Give it back," Marshall spat. He was visibly shaking with his overwhelming anger. "It's mine." He ripped away from Bobby D. and Raph easily, perhaps more easily than he would normally have done, and stalked closer to Stan, who took an instinctive step back.

"Marshall, you know I can't give it back to you."

"It's mine." This time, Stan saw, there was no anger, none at all. He still refused to turn the Glock and almost punched Marshall when he lunged for the gun, before remembering that he wasn't in his right mind and catching him instead. Still, Marshall kept at it until, suddenly, all the fight seemed to abandon him, and he muttered, "I promised" before falling to his knees. Everyone moved forward to help, even Jinx, who'd been watching from the open car door, but he didn't seem to notice the sickening crack everyone else had, and he didn't fall over. "I promised…" he repeated, then fell silent.

Several minutes passed, then Brandi broke the silence. "It is possible to run away from your thoughts?"

Stan looked down on his inspector. "Marshall did."


End file.
